


Défoncé, Défonce moi

by Peoplesing



Series: La chanson française [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Denial, Drunk Sex, M/M, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:39:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peoplesing/pseuds/Peoplesing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mornings were hard, it was a reality Grantaire lived by everyday. He didn't expect it to become worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Défoncé, Défonce moi

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so tired and frustrated by work these days, so... Angsty fic :-(  
> So the title is a song from Damien Saez, which basically means Fucked up, Fuck me.  
> Maybe I'll do a sequel, I have to think about it.

“Grantaire.” A voice sighed loudly in the dark of the room.

The dark haired man wasn't sure how he ended up here, in that apartment. He was with someone, that was for sure.

They were both drunk, that was certain.

And they were kissing the breath away of one another.

He had been at a random club that night, with a few of his friends after a protest. Bahorel and Courfeyrac had followed him, drink by drink, shot by shot, yelling happily slogans without much sense. They drank and had fun, all of that under Enjolras's judgmental stare. But Grantaire couldn't precisely remember what happened the 6th drink. Like pitch black out. All he knew was that he was in somebody's bed, the both of them naked, and that he was kissing the owner senselessly (at least he hoped it was the owner's, he will never talk about what happened that time).

He could feel a hand grasping at his sweaty back, with blunt nails digging sharply, as the other one was deftly sliding down his cock, gripping along the shaft (and God it felt good, he thought, as he trembled in pleasure). 

The stranger was panting loudly in his ear, in the same wretched state that he was, moaning and grunting like a bunch of fucking animals. Because that was what they where. It was just sex.

Grantaire nipped playfully at the neck in front of him, marking the blond (yes, he was sure of it, it was a blond) with dedication. 

And it didn't matter that it was probably a one time thing, that they were pissed shit drunk, that he forgot the person's name...

It was just a fuck.

A perfect fuck with a perfect stranger and a tight piece of ass.

Their lips were barley apart that night and the rare time they actually were, the mouth kept drawing him, calling his name in the dark of the room.

And he kept thrusting into him (the sex was good, each touches electric and intense and more intoxicating than any drugs he ever experienced).

Those lips...

“Grantaire” they asked.

“Grantaire” they begged.

“Grantaire” they moaned.

Grantaire, Grantaire, Grantaire...

 

Ugh...

Mornings were hard. That was a reality that Grantaire lived by everyday. And it wasn't only the hangover. Even when he wasn't, the chirping of birds were too loud, the sun was annoyingly bright and, let's face it, nothing good ever happened before noon. But who was he kidding? He had drank a lot last night. His head was pounding and he felt like he had to consume a gallon of water.

He tried to open his eyes but failed miserably. The sun definitely wasn't his friend today. And he felt so bad...

He finally managed to accomplish the task, his retinas burning disagreeably. Sitting up, He realized that he wasn't in his room, he could tell that instantly. The sheets in which he was wrapped into were crimson and not the familiar white. Now that he came to think of it, his own window was condemned and not a single ray of light could pass through it. So, where was he? 

He took a moment to look around him and seized the room. It definitely wasn't his, but it was familiar.

The bedroom was sparse as if a monk lived there. There were no decorations or pictures on the wall whatsoever, the desk was neatly organized and the bookshelf was full. The only mess he could see were clothes on the floor, his and someone else's. He finally noticed the human form beside him, covered completely by the sheet. It was indubitably a man (or a very flat girl with broad shoulders and hairy legs). It was also common knowledge that Grantaire was very gay (always searching for men with blond hair and fire within their eyes).

He didn't want to bother him. If he was hammered, he couldn't imagine in what state must be the stranger. After all, who could ever have sex with him while being sober? That was also a reality Grantaire lived by everyday. Because, no, he wasn't handsome. He was more downward ugly. 

And he didn't care that much about it. Beside him, the sheet shifted, uncovering a head.

A head with blond curls that he knew by heart, that he dreamed of at night.

Grantaire blinked, feeling a little dazed, as he scrutinized the face, the long lashes splaying across his cheeks, in an almost feminine way, the turned up nose and the straight line of the mouth, unusually at ease. 

It was Enjolras.

Part of him wanted to yell:”Oh my God it's Enjolras!”. Grantaire didn't believe in God, and yet, some mystical forces must have been at work here. It was almost as if Hallelujahs were singing in his ears.

And then, it hit him. He had sex last night with Enjolras, the man who used to look at him with disdain, the man he loved from afar, now oh so close.

Maybe he should take a picture of the both of them.

And the blond looked so relaxed, so peaceful from his usual self, sprawled on the bed like that.

Grantaire took a moment, resisting the temptation to bury his hands and twirl at the unruly curls. He started reaching for them, before drawing back. It must be a dream, an illusion and he certainly didn't want to break it.

The head moved slightly and Enjolras's hand gripped at his calf, gently.

His eyes fluttered slightly, troubled by the light. He shifted, getting closer to Grantaire, who still couldn't believe what he was seeing, and the blond started nuzzling at the knee right next to him. That sent shivers up Grantaire's spine, and his heartbeat quicken, hopeful. 

He tried to open his eyes once more, narrowing them, but groaned again as if the sun had personally offended him. And since when it dared Apollo, in all it's mightiness?

The blue of his eyes eventually appeared, his iris so wide you could barley see the black of his pupils. He cocked his head a bit, looking at his surroundings, before at last seeing Grantaire.

Enjolras jumped, backing up against the wall. He looked as if he wanted to run somewhere, to be anywhere but here.

“Morning Apollo.” Grantaire said, growing a big smile.

“Gr- Grantaire?” He stuttered, a panicking expression on his face, “what happened last night?”.

He looked around, noticing his lack of clothes and Grantaire's. The wires seemed to turn inside his head, making him slowly process the events from the night before. 

“Oh God” he ended up saying, bringing up his hands to his head.

He sounded so panicked. After all their golden leader never drank and sometime it could feel overwhelming, even for him. Grantaire understood, and try to handle the situation with kindness.

“It's okay R, hangovers are hard.” His tone was gentle.

Enjolras's eyes snapped back up, eying at him wildly.

“That's not what it's about, Grantaire.” He said.

“Then, what is it?”

“Ugh... I really slept with you that night How many drinks did I have?”

Grantaire just shrugged his shoulders.

“The night is a little fuzzy too. I couldn't tell you, love.”

“Don't call me back” Enjolras told him, frowning at the nickname. 

“Why?” And his tone was completely innocent and genuine. 

“Because Grantaire!” He half yelled in frustration. He clearly looked hungover and angry.

Someone knocked on the door. Someone chose that fucking moment to knock at the freaking door. 

Before either of them could answer, it opened and a wave of people came in. First of all there was Marius, which was normal since he was Enjolras's roommate, then Cosette, who was Marius's girlfriend, but the other had no business here: Bahorel, Bossuet, Eponine, Combeferre, Feuilly, Joly, Jehan, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. 

All of them were standing in Enjolras's tiny bedroom, with the both of them still naked. The only thing covering their dignity was the bloody sheet.

Enjolras blanched and his grip on the fabric tighten, showing off his hard knuckles.

Their friends finally broke out in a loud meddle of whistles, exclamations and dirty jokes. But neither Grantaire or Enjolras were reacting.

The chaos progressively lowered, leaving the whole group a little confused, until Courfeyrac tried:

“So... You guys are dating now, huh?”

“Congratulations, mates.” said Bahorel.

“Yeah, the sex tension was killing.” Chirped Jehan.

Grantaire's smile faded as he looked at Enjolras. His face was closed, a little red, purposely watching his feet as if they were the most interesting thing in the world.

Enjolras didn't want this, he realized. He was ashamed, he was disgusted by him.

“Enjolras?” Bossuet asked suddenly.

“This was a mistake” The blond snapped angrily. 

“Enjolras...” Eponine called out, looking at the brown haired man with worry, who was as unmoving as a statue, looking straight in front of him.

“This never should have happened. Combeferre, remind never to drink alcohol again.” He said adamantly, under everyone's shocked faces. 

Grantaire couldn't contain a wince of pain. It wasn't physical, but it felt as if the blond had ripped his heart out.

His head still hurt, but right now he felt he needed some liquor to dull the hole freshly made out of his chest. Because Enjolras was ashamed of him and he was right to do so.

But the blond wasn't even paying attention to him. He just held Combeferre's glare with determination (and maybe with an ounce of pride).

“You're serious?”

“This is bullshit!” Shouted Bahorel, clearly angry at their leader.

“Come on Enjy...” Bossuet started, but he couldn't continue.

“If you could just leave us. I need to talk to him.” Enjolras interjected, icily. 

That was enough to settle an awkward atmosphere into the room with everyone unable to look at anyone.

Grantaire was hurt and that was an understatement. 

Eponine finally had the good sense to leave by the doorway, taking Bahorel by the arm. The others followed, having clearly understood that it wasn't something they could meddle with.

The door shut. Not hesitating, Grantaire got up not caring about his nudity, and began to wordlessly pick up his clothes, scattered across the room. His head felt like shit, aching profusely, but it was better than staying here.

“Grantaire” Enjolras called out, his voice suddenly soft. He wasn't the man from before: the fearless leader without feelings and attachments, the revolutionary. Last night, he showed him someone else... Someone vulnerable and attainable. But who was he really? Which one was the mask? Grantaire couldn't bear it.

He felt betrayed.

“Just let it go. It was a mistake. Just a bloody mistake.”

He closed his eyes briefly, keeping his tears from coming out.

The blond called him again, but the drunk couldn't face him, not right now.

“We were drunk, you said. It was a mistake.”

Grantaire kept repeating that, as if to convince himself that it was.

But it wasn't. He knew it. He loved Enjolras, always had and always will. But he'll never be good enough. And Enjolras will always despise him. 

He put on his shirt (some of the buttons were missing, probably having being ripped off in a fit of passion) but he closed it anyway, in the best way he could.

“We have to talk about this” pleaded the blond, still not moving from his spot. 

“No we don't” he answered back, firmly.

He turned to face him, resolved not to show how hurt he was.

Enjolras was looking at him, asking silently. Grantaire took a moment to seize the moment: he looked at the debauched man, with his hair even wilder than usual, the state of his lips, red and ravaged (by him) the bruises marking his shoulders and his neck...

He snapped out of it and pulled up his pair of jeans, not caring about his underwear (he wouldn't stay a minute more than he needed to).

“Wait” Enjolras called out again.

“No Enjolras!” He exploded, anger suddenly bursting. He wasn't angry at him... He was angry at himself. He hated himself for believing, even for a second, that this could be true, that Enjolras could love him. 

The said man was looking at him, stunned.

Well at least that shut him up. So he continued:

“It's – It's okay,” his tone was low, resigned, “let's just... Let's just never talk about this never again. It will just be a joke, you know? Like: “remember that time Enjolras and Grantaire were so drunk they ended up having sex?” Ha ha.” But the laugh was so cold and empty that it was completely unconvincing.

“No. It's not like that. Grantaire, it's just a misunderstanding, it's...”

“No, Apollo, it's nothing. Just a mistake, right?”

He pocketed his socks in the back of his jeans and put on his shoes like that, again, not caring.

“Bye Enjolras. I guess I'll see you at Musain.”

And it was so hard to keep his voice from cracking. 

He went to the door, avoiding the clothes on the floor (Enjolras's, the ones he had been so eager to strip off the night before).

The mouth called out for him again, but he refused to turn around. He went straight for the door, ignoring with equal measure the blond, and his friends in the living room.

And fuck, he really needed to drown himself in booze, right now.

This was even worse than any drugs he ever tried. It was supposed to be up and then more down than before. Enjolras just brought back into worst than misery. 

So this is where he was going, away from all this bullshit. And Enjolras be damned. 

The sound of the door shutting down sealed their fate.


End file.
